


you can hear it in the silence

by doctormissy



Series: all aboard the ineffable plan [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Drinking, Feelings, Fluff and Humor, Footnotes, Getting Together, M/M, Post-Apocalypse, Post-Canon, Slice of Life, and i mean LOTS of feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-11
Updated: 2019-08-11
Packaged: 2020-08-19 11:49:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20209264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctormissy/pseuds/doctormissy
Summary: The angel—his angel—briefly looks away, flustered, and then looks back at Crowley, who thinks it’s somewhat adorable, the faces Aziraphale makes. Not that he’d ever use the word. He says, ‘We’ll have time to figure it out, hopefully. Together.’Crowley’s eyebrow does this thing where it cocks up without his permission. ‘Together?’Or, in other words, five times they don’t speak about their love for each other and one time they (sort of) do.





	you can hear it in the silence

**Author's Note:**

> *️⃣ set before [all aboard the ineffable plan](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19861321/chapters/47035351)
> 
> ✅ can be read as stand-alone
> 
> ❇️ title from Taylor Swift's _You Are In Love_; I hope you like it! ♡

** **i** **

‘You could stay at my place, if you’d like.’

Crowley doesn’t take another swig of wine. The bottle dangles loosely in his hand with half a mind to clatter down on the ground and take the wine with it. His gaze bears into Aziraphale’s.

‘I—I don’t think my side would like that,’ says Aziraphale, meaning _remember, Crowley, remember the agreement_, and purposefully looks away. It doesn’t last for long.

‘You don’t have a side anymore. Neither of us do. We’re on our own side,’ he says, meaning _it’s okay, Aziraphale. We can do this now. They’re not watching us anymore, and even if they do, who the fuck cares?_

‘Like Agnes said, we are going to have to choose our faces wisely.’

Aziraphale looks away again. A part of Crowley hurts because _does he really have to ****think**** about it_? But he keeps his mouth shut and waves at the driver of the approaching bus to stop. He gets up, and Aziraphale follows, still mulling the words over. They don’t pay because they have nothing to pay _with_, but it’s all alright anyway. They take a seat.

Not behind each other, a pathetic attempt to escape any prying eyes of Upstairs or Below.

Next to each other. Because they are on their own side.

Aziraphale’s thigh brushes against Crowley’s and he lets it. Crowley turns his head, just slightly, and gives him this Look, like this moment is the only thing that matters. Like he has just seen something incredible. Something akin a shiver travels down his spine.

He needs a gulp of that wine now.

Aziraphale rests his perfectly manicured hands in his lap and doesn’t move an inch.

‘What do you think she meant?’ the angel finally asks and breaks the comfortable silence between them, otherwise disturbed by the thrum of the engine and quiet snoring of a man just returning from a birthday party that turned out to be longer than a tired office worker found appropriate.

‘Agnes?’ Crowley sets the bottle down and looks out of the window. ‘“You will be playing with fire”. I think she might’ve meant actual fire, or, I dunno.’ He crosses his arms and glances at Aziraphale again. His eyes focus entirely on him and it Does Things. ‘Maybe she meant us.’

His arms aren’t right like this. He uncrosses them. Lets them fall on his knees.

Aziraphale doesn’t scoff at him for as much as _suggesting_ such things. That’s nice, Crowley thinks, and then blesses in his head because _not nice, he’s not supposed to get anywhere close nice_, but then again, he doesn’t care anymore.

So, things are nice.

The angel—his angel—briefly looks away, flustered, and then looks back at Crowley, who thinks it’s somewhat adorable, the faces Aziraphale makes. Not that he’d ever use the word. He says, ‘We’ll have time to figure it out, hopefully. Together.’

Crowley’s eyebrow does this thing where it cocks up without his permission. ‘Together?’

Fingers grip his own and pull his hand closer to the gap where black denim meets beige trouser in place of an answer, if a little uncertainly and all over the place. And Crowley decides, he’s tired as _hell_ and it’s quite a long ride to London and he _definitely_ won’t lean against the rattling window because that would just give him a headache, so he might as well rest his head against Aziraphale’s shoulder and see where that goes.

Aziraphale tenses in surprise—_but what if someone sees!_—but relaxes almost as quickly. Who is there to see, after all? Crowley takes another further and brushes his thumb against the soft skin of Aziraphale’s hand.

He shuts his eyes and keeps them that way for the entirety of the ride.

The driver, very confused about this whole situation but in a somewhat hazy way that tells him this is how it’s meant to be and he just doesn’t know why, stops in front of Crowley’s building. The last two passengers get off, bones aching just an impossible bit and points of former contact tingling with the sudden lack of touch.

As a habit acquired over the centuries, Aziraphale quickly looks around makes sure no one is following before he enters the building after Crowley. But it doesn’t matter. Crowley tells him as much. The tips of Aziraphale’s ears blush, and he gives him one of those nervous smiles, which Crowley sees, even at night.

Again, Things.

Angels _shouldn’t_ have such an effect on demons. This one does, and has had for quite some time. Crowley knows demons shouldn’t have such an effect on angels either, and he is glad he does, entirely too pleased with himself.

They go upstairs, lowercase u, making small talk that doesn’t grow old after six-millennia-and-change. Not ever.

Aziraphale doesn’t pay any mind to his, well, _incriminating _angel statue, and Crowley wishes he did for a second there. He spares a vaguely threatening glance at the houseplants, who do not give him the satisfaction of shaking even a single leaf, the smug bastards. They will need a nice lecture tomorrow.

He carries on to his small, modern kitchen and puts the kettle on. You can’t live in London for two centuries without picking up a few distinctive traits of the locals, really.

He puts a shot of whisky in their tea along with the milk and sugar.

Aziraphale, for the lack of a better word, snoops. He hasn’t really been to Crowley’s flat before. Sure, he has popped over to pick him up for lunch a few times, but there wasn’t much time to inspect the interior, as it were. So he snoops. He would frown at the term—angels do not snoop, angels _study the environment_—but that would do him no good. One grimace from Crowley would make him light up and forget anyway.

Crowley leans against a doorjamb, a pleased smile spreading from his lips to the corners of his eyes, still hidden behind sunglasses, and observes Aziraphale observe his art collection for a minute or five before he clears his throat and lets him know he’s been doing it.

The world has almost ended; he’s allowed a few indulgences.

Aziraphale startles.

‘I’ve brought tea,’ Crowley says, smug, and hands over the cuppa.

Aziraphale comes to him, takes it with a barely audible_thank you_, and returns the smile for a fleeting second. Then he takes a sip.

‘Ooh, this has got a kick,’ he says and promptly downs almost all of it, hot and pleasant on his tongue and burning just a little as he swallows. ‘Much appreciated.’

Crowley, the bastard he is, laughs at him and miracles the cup full. He peels away from the doorpost and saunters out of the room, leaving a delighted and perhaps a little scandalised expression on Aziraphale’s face.

He groans. ‘I’m tired, angel. Let’s go to bed.’

‘You know I don’t—’

Crowley spins around on his foot. ‘Aziraphale.’ He glares. ‘After the week I’ve had, I _really_ need to lie down and I don’t care if you stay up all night reading a book or whatever, I just—come with me?’

He tries not to sound pleading. His voice sort of fails him.

A cup clatters against the saucer. Aziraphale sighs. ‘Well, alright then.’ He takes another sip. ‘I do need to look at this prophecy, myself, and I suppose it can’t hurt if I, you know.’

‘Yeah.’ Crowley would like to say he’s forgotten about the prophecy, but no, it has been at the back of his mind ever since Aziraphale showed it to him. ‘Come on, then.’

He stops by the kitchen first, to take his own cup of spiked tea, slightly cold by now, and the last of the wine from Tadfield. Aziraphale hovers in the doorway, and Crowley feels like it was always supposed to be like this. Domestic. He’s not even ashamed of the thought, not deep down, not anymore.

A jerk of his head shows Aziraphale the direction of the bedroom, which he no doubt knows anyway. The gesture conveys, _go on, angel, do you want to stand here all night_? and an unspoken pang of edginess and a thought of _so this is really happening_ and so much more.

Perhaps a little uncertainly, too, Aziraphale goes.

The bed is larger than usual. Crowley gulps. Must’ve been his subconscious. Aziraphale doesn’t notice; he eyes the grey covers and a mountain of pillows piled up at the headboard.

‘Which one is yours?’ he asks.

‘I usually just sleep in the middle,’ like the proper snake he is, draped all over, ‘but erm, the left side’s fine.’

The air starts to feel uneasy, Crowley thinks, and then smothers the thought and swaggers to the nightstand, where he lays the drinks. He snaps his fingers and in a nanosecond, he’s wearing a pair of black, satin pyjamas[1].

Aziraphale, used to his antics, doesn’t seem impressed and merely walks over to what happens to be his side[2] for the night. Crowley grimaces and plops onto the bed almost theatrically, folding his arms under his head. He grins. The sunglasses stay on.

This time, Aziraphale _sighs_ at him. ‘Really, Crowley?’

Crowley is suddenly very interested in the form and shape of the ceiling, which is, well, flat[3]. He doesn’t see Aziraphale carefully place his cup and the rather burnt piece of prophecy from Agnes Nutter’s book on the other nightstand, which might or might not have existed prior to this night.

He sees him take his coat off and mentally search for a place to put it.

‘You can just leave it on the floor, I don’t mind,’ he says. He leaves clothing on the floor all the time, himself. Aziraphale gives him a stern kind of look that would make Dog the dog yelp. Not Crowley. He’s amused, and a little more enamoured.

He doesn’t say any of that out loud. He rolls his eyes, which Aziraphale can’t see anyway, and tells him there’s an armchair the next room over and he can as well leave his clothes there. Clothes, plural. Not that he has any, you know, intentions.

Aziraphale excuses himself, coat in hand. Crowley waits and dunks his innards in more red wine. He rests his hands on his front and burrows deeper into the pillows until he almost finds himself drifting off.

Then the angel comes back.

He’s wearing his trousers and shirt, the first two buttons unfastened. Crowley looks him up and down and makes him fluster. It’s a good look on him, more casual than ever, Crowley admits, but then again, he’s always hated his gravely outdated fashion choices. He’s been wearing the same combination since the _forties_, for G—Sat—_Elvis’ _sake.

Though, Crowley counts, he should be glad it was the _nineteen_ forties, at least.

‘I’ve got—’ He clears his throat. His voice is a little raspy. It must be the fumes from the burning car. ‘I don’t actually _have_ any books, but there should be some newspapers with empty crossword puzzles in the desk. If you want.’

‘Oh! Yes, if you’d be so kind.’

Under his breath, he mutters something along the lines of, “_Kind_, I’m not bloody _kind_, I’m a _demon_” but snaps his fingers again. He _isn’t_ getting up in the next ten hours unless his flat is literally on fire, but maybe not even that, because Aziraphale is here and he’d take care of it for him anyway, albeit reluctantly. So he’s not getting up under _any_ condition, full stop.

He offers the bottle, too. ‘Wine?’

Aziraphale slowly lets himself on the unfamiliar bed, shifting. Unlike Crowley, he bothers climbing under the covers. It’s actually charming, he thinks. Then he accepts the wine and takes a healthy, or perhaps unhealthy, swig.

Then another.

Then he passes it back, and Crowley finishes it off and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

‘You know what I think?’ Aziraphale begins. There’s a knowing look on his face, and that’s never good. ‘You said it wasn’t over, and the prophecy—’

‘No propheciessss till the morning, angel.’ Crowley takes his glasses off and meets him snake-eye to angel-eye. ‘I drove a burning car from London to Tadfield not so long ago. ‘M tired. Tell me later.’

Aziraphale, pretending to be offended, fumbles with the duvet and looks the other way. Again, it doesn’t last for long. A smile tells Crowley the angel would do about anything for him the moment he turns back. ‘Of course. You need to rest, dear boy.’

‘Hmmh.’

‘I’ll look at this and do the puzzles, then. Goodnight, Crowley.’

Tea forgotten on the nightstand, Crowley says, ‘Night.’ He looks away because if he had to look at that perfect face for even a little longer, he might just flare up like his Bentley earlier.

‘Should I turn the light off? Does it bother you?’ Aziraphale asks a minute later.

‘Nah, leave it,’ he mumbles. Subconsciously, he chuckles, because this is bloody _ridiculous_—he asks if the light bothers him! His hereditary enemy!

But that’s why loves him. He, a demon who was never really doing a good job of being one, loves Aziraphale and Aziraphale _knows_, he knows, and it’s okay that he does, that they both do, because screw the bosses with their sodding _plans_ and their _love-thy-neighbour-except-when-they-are-from-the-opposite-gang_ attitude.

After six thousand years[4], it’s finally okay.

And if Crowley snakes his hand around Aziraphale in the middle of the night when Aziraphale is no longer squinting at the crossword and is instead lying flat on his back with his thoughts, it’s okay too.

** **ii** **

Aziraphale, having fallen asleep around three a.m. despite his mind’s insistent arguments that angels do __not__ require sleep, wakes up with an armful of demon, one very comfortably snoring away at that.

He goes through a plethora of expressions ranging from alarmed to blissful in the next ten seconds and then gives up on any attempts on waking him up because frankly, he needs his beauty sleep[5]. The prophecy can wait.

He runs his hand through Crowley’s hair and watches him breathe in, breathe out, breathe in again.

Crowley absolutely knows about this.

He doesn’t stir awake until two hours later, though, because he is enjoying himself immensely and who is there to throw him out, anyway? Except for Aziraphale, of course, but he’d never—

‘Do get off of me, my dear, my leg is beginning to feel a little numb,’ he says, those two hours later, and mercilessly shoves him back onto the mattress with a glorified __smile__. Legs swing over the side of the bed and spine pops into place; then he’s off to the kitchen to make tea and perhaps some breakfast, and _please continue with that hair thing? No?_

Crowley groans and hides his face under the duvet. That was ever so undignified, what the angel did!

The eggs in the fridge, whose best before date has seen better days, decide to reverse the damage on themselves when Aziraphale picks them up; some oranges suddenly turn up; the smell of food he doesn’t have to prepare gets Crowley out of bed five minutes later.

A good opportunity to snatch some scrambled eggs off Aziraphale’s plate, that is. And he is unusually hungry. Must be the Apocawhoops.

‘Ah, so you’re not actually dead,’ Aziraphale says with no shame at all. ‘Excellent. Breakfast?’

Crowley silently watches him stir the eggs and blinks, actually blinks. Then goes and drapes himself over one of the two chairs he owns and cocks a playful eyebrow. ‘Sleep well, angel?’

Aziraphale turns off the cooker. He appears troubled. ‘Actually, no, I couldn’t stop thinking about Heaven and Hell and all the things in between, and then I had this _unpleasant_ dream about _Gabriel _of all people, which is odd, truly, isn’t it? Because angels don’t usually dream—’

There’s no point in trying to appear Cool this early in the morning[6] so Crowley sits a little bit straighter[7], crosses his legs, and listens.

He listens as Aziraphale describes his dream; says what he thinks about the whole business with the Great and Ineffable Plans; enunciates his thoughts on the prophecy. He drinks orange juice and steals eggs off Aziraphale’s plate, and it’s their routine.

And then, ‘Hold on, so you think, I mean,’ he swallows a bite, ‘_Freaky Friday_? Literally swapping faces? Isn’t that a little overkill?’

‘But that’s just it, Crowley, I think they mean to, well, not discorporate but _kill_ us, or try to. Maybe nothing will happen, but this is _Agnes_ we’re talking about.’ Aziraphale furrows his brow. ‘_Freaky Friday_?’

‘You know, the Lindsay Lohan film? When she swaps bodies with her—’ Aziraphale continues to be adorably bemused. That’s actually a Thing he does quite often, Crowley observes. ‘Never mind. Still a crazy plan. _But_,’ he lights up like a Christmas tree after a mischievous candle has some fun with it, ‘love crazy plans, me. And I definitely want to see you trying to make these hips work.’

** **iii** **

‘To the world,’ Crowley toasts.

‘To the _world_,’ says Aziraphale, and looks at him like __he__ is his world.

Perhaps he is. Crowley’s old heart ignores anything about demons not being capable of hope and hopes he is. Aziraphale has been Crowley’s world for six thousand years.

Their champagne glasses clink, and they drink, bubbles and exhilaration tingling in their mouths.

The plan, if not the hips, has worked.

The Plan has worked, too.

They survived, and if they weren’t truly free of their offices before, they are now. So they have lunch at the Ritz, and lunch quickly turns into dinner, and dinner turns into a night out drinking.

A night out drinking turns into a night _in_ drinking somewhere around 10 p.m. They wind up in Aziraphale’s bookshop, this time, something of a quid pro quo deal. Aziraphale takes his coat off as soon as the lock on the door clicks, and sighs rather heavily.

Crowley is starting to feel the alcohol in his system, and he imagines Aziraphale isn’t much better, or worse, off. He wanders towards the sofa in the back room and unceremoniously slumps onto it. It groans under his body. From the room next over, he hears Aziraphale ask, ‘More of that Chin—Chianti we had last time or some scotch, what d’ you think?’

‘Scotch,’ Crowley calls after him. ‘_Definitely _scotch.’

He blows a raspberry and takes his sunglasses off. The bookshop drops slightly to the right, which is odd, he thinks, but maybe it’s just the expensive drinks. The earth isn’t really sinking under his feet.

They made sure of that, yesterday. Ha! So clever, they were.

He has no mind to stop drinking any time soon, too. If today isn’t a day to escape certain death by pulling off a dangerous stunt based on a three-hundred-years old prophecy, get yourself fired, literally in one case, and get exquisitely sloshed thereupon, he has no idea what is.

Well, okay, he has an inkling humans also do this sort of thing when someone gets married or dies, but neither case so much as nears the significance of what _they_ are going through.

Aziraphale comes bearing a bottle and two _teacups_. It’s ridiculous and so very _Aziraphale_.__

Crowley fills them to the brim with scotch without unscrewing the bottle open. No sense in saving up miracles now, is there? Their bosses can kindly fuck off.

Aziraphale looks at them, almost in amazement. ‘I couldn’t find any glasses, ‘m sorry,’ he begins and sits down on the armchair that faces the sofa with some level of difficulty. His still perfectly manicured fingers pick up his cup. He loses his train of thought. ‘To wha’ shall we toast then, m’ dear?’

Crowley considers the question, brows furrowed. They toasted to so many things today, he lost track. But then a smile creeps up his face. ‘The great _bastards_ whose life we prob’ly ruined till bloody eternity.’

‘_Excellent_ idea,’ Aziraphale beams with a suspiciously uncharacteristic sentiment.

Their cups come together. Liquid spills onto the table and is promptly put out of its misery. They down half of their cups at once, for good measure.

It burns. It burns, but it’s a good burn. It’s an alive kind of burn.

Crowley clicks his fingers, and the old gramophone starts playing something that emphatically isn’t Queen. He doesn’t recognise the song, himself, but the state of not being Queen is good enough. Right now, he doesn’t like silence.

‘Now, that’s better,’ he says, with feeling. He drinks again.

‘Hmm,’ is all Aziraphale offers in response. He’s that kind of drunk: stunned and quiet, at first, and then he goes all out and loses his composure and sings karaoke at 2 a.m. Well, theoretically, anyway. Karaoke is on the list of activities Crowley has yet to convince Aziraphale to try.

They listen to music, drink, and decidedly not talk for the next couple of minutes. Crowley spends most of them trying to forget the image of Aziraphale minus the bowtie, and failing spectacularly. The minutes he doesn’t spend thinking about that are instead given off to wondering whether they will do this kind of thing again today, or any day, or—

At the least appropriate moment, Aziraphale asks, ‘Penny f’r your thoughts?’

Crowley opens his mouth and closes it again. No words come out. He’s not sure whether they should. And then he ventures, ‘Dance with me?’

‘What?’ Aziraphale asks, unsure whether he heard him correctly. He pulls both eyebrows so high up they nearly touch his white curls. He almost spills the contents of his cup. Again.

‘Dance with me, angel,’ Crowley repeats, being an utter _idiot_ with no self-preservation instincts, and slams his teacup onto the table. It doesn’t break thanks to a miracle; neither of them knows whose. He wiggles his hands in what he thinks is invitation. ‘We’ve jus’ saved the world, come on!’

There’s a lot of that going around today, for sure. Crowley suspects there will be more, knowing his drunk self.

‘But I don’—that is—’ Aziraphale trails off and lights up a microsecond later. It’s one of those Adorable Expressions that make Crowley’s days and nights and—he’d rather not go there. ‘D’ you know the gavotte?’

Crowley is, frankly, appalled. He pulls back, making a face. ‘The gavo—‘Ziraphale, the gavotte came out of fassshion more than a hundr’d years ago. _Gavotte_! No, I meant, like,’ he waves his hands in a gesture that makes no particular sense, and he’s not sure himself what he quite means. The gramophone is much better at conveying his thoughts and switches the song to a slow Sinatra number.

‘Oh,’ Aziraphale breathes. His nose is red from drinking. He drinks some more. ‘Well, I s’ppose one can. Try.’

Despite himself, Crowley can’t believe his ears when he hears that, can’t believe his eyes when Aziraphale makes no noises of protest—or maybe that’s ears too, actually—can’t believe his own body when it tries to lift him up from his burrow on the sofa and manages to do so with a groan from both Crowley and sofa. He can’t believe all of himself when he:

  1. reaches for Aziraphale’s hand to pull the angel up as well,
  2. instead of sobering up in his poor attempt at dancing, he drinks a little bit more.

Because Aziraphale is hardly the only who cannot actually do this; he’s merely the one who admits it. Crowley, in his usual fashion, tries to look Cool and play it off with a joke and make himself look the expert when he couldn’t be further _off_.

Crowley hasn’t danced since the 1970s, and disco dancing never really _counted_. Even he knows that.

Still, he takes Aziraphale’s hand in his, and ignores the warmth spreading from fingertips to his body to his entire serpentine form.

‘Er, I dunno,’ he says, because doesn’t know whether he should put his other hand on his shoulder or the small of his back and can’t actually word the thought. He settles on the shoulder blade instead and doesn’t ignite with the touch, so he deems the situation good enough to start moving in whatever direction he finds appropriate. ‘Like this?’

Aziraphale is on the verge of a giggle, and that’s good enough. Who _cares_ they’re pants at this. They have eternity to learn, now. Earth still orbits the Sun and humans still get to make music and how beautiful everything is! Look, Aziraphale!

He doesn’t say any of that out loud. He says, hissing quite a good bit, ‘Yeah? Okay, thisssis quite nicccce.’

Who _cares_ they move out of the rhythm of the song because they fail to notice it ended and became a wholly different one[8].

‘It is!’ Aziraphale beams. His cheeks are red as well, in addition to his nose. ‘Why did we never do this b’fore?’

‘Dunno,’ Crowley mutters, quiet enough to be drowned out by the music. ‘We were ssssstupid.’

He knows, he _knows_ why, and doesn’t say. He’s too drunk for that, or not drunk enough.

Aziraphale hums a question. _What was that? I can’t hear you._

Crowley narrowly avoids stepping on Aziraphale’s foot and shifts closer to catch himself from falling on the carpeted floor. His needless breath hitches in his throat as he collapses with the angel instead. He goes so far as to dare lay his head against his since they’re already there and finally, _finally_ releases the breath.

‘Nothing, angel,’ he manages to say.

He notices he’s more or less slouching against him now, rather than dancing. If it can be called dancing at all, that is. He decides he likes it and summons his teacup into the hand holding Aziraphale’s back. He finishes the whisky off.

He’s not sure if it’s remained whisky for the entirety of the evening, at this point.

‘Lesss just ssstay like thisss for a while.’

‘That can do, my dear,’ says Aziraphale. The song switches again. ‘That can do.’

Touching, Crowley finds, falls into the category of I-shouldn’t-like-nice-things-but-this-is-nice, and touching Aziraphale like this gets him over the moon. It’s dangerous, he knows, but it doesn’t matter, he reminds himself, for the second time in two days.

He holds on.

** **iv** **

Life—well.

When you’re a billions-years-old celestial being, _life_ has a more complex meaning than a human could possibly try to comprehend. Life is stars and Universe and an endless free fall and an insect stuck in amber and the beginning of all creation and no _end_. But let’s not dwell on that thought.

Life goes on, after the failed Apocalypse. It falls back into familiar tracks, and it doesn’t feel all that different, despite the inherent feeling that is _should._ Earth is still the same: ignorant of any attempts at ending it and peacefully floating in space, a million miles per hour. Humans go about their business[9]. An angel and a demon meet in St James’s Park.

They sit on their usual bench with a bag of stale bread for the ducks. Aziraphale still reads the _Celestial Observer_, for some reason Crowley cannot grasp, and tells him about the latest news—because that’s what the newspaper is _for_, you see.

‘Look at that, my dear,’ he says, as pleased as if the article talked about the returning stylishness of tartan. ‘They say here that Gabriel has temporarily been reassigned to Accounting. Desk duty! I hope he thoroughly enjoys the hours upon hours of signing forms.’

Crowley imagines that arsehole of an Archangel who wanted to burn his perfect, beloved Aziraphale alive, he imagines him fuming under that human suit as he sits and sits and stares at numbers for what he’d done, and he laughs. ‘Sounds a lot like Hell to me.’

‘Indeed,’ says Aziraphale with atypical mischief in his heavenly voice. He nudges him with an elbow. Their thighs are pressed against each other, just like that night on the bus. Crowley should be used to the touches by now. Still isn’t. It’s all wonderfully new and Nice.

He’s making a full-on category for Nice Things now. Aziraphale occupies most of it.

‘Who in the Heavens—’ Crowley cringes at his own word choice, ‘made _that_ happen, anyway? Must’ve been a real miracle.’

Aziraphale studies the article for a second. A duck waddles to the bench and quacks in want of food. Crowley reaches for the bag, offers it some of that bread, and doesn’t even bother killing it for the sole purpose of annoying the angel.

He thinks about it, sure, but somehow, seeing Aziraphale be cross with him about a joke that’s so old it isn’t funny anymore isn’t on top of his shopping list. Besides, he’s just done it three days ago.

Aziraphale says, ‘Looks like Amenadiel is putting things in order.’ Crowley searches his mind for information on the particular angel, but _his_ angel continues before it produces results. ‘The Sword of God being against the War, that’s another thing I never thought I’d see.’

‘I didn’t think angels were capable of surprising you,’ admits Crowley. ‘Not after the first time around, anyway.’ Aziraphale knows what Crowley means, must do, because he lets go of the newspaper with one hand and lays it on Crowley’s knee. He squeezes, and it’s also Nice, but it doesn’t stop the melancholy from creeping into Crowley’s voice. ‘But then they went and made a deal with Down Below, so who knows anymore. I certainly don’t _trust them_.’

_Them_. Not him. Him, he’d trust _always_.

But he’s being stupid again and holds his tongue. There’s time yet. Time can’t die, and neither can they, not if they have a say in it. He’s waited for six thousand years and he can wait for six thousand more because they both_know know know—_

‘You think you know someone…’ Aziraphale reminisces. There’s hidden pain.

Before Aziraphale can get another word in edgewise, Crowley shoots up and holds up his hand. ‘Let’s have lunch,’ he says. ‘Wherever you want.’

Aziraphale gives him a Look that says he’s not quite done here and Crowley wiggles his hand in invitation like he did when he was drunk and asked him to dance.

‘Well, all right then, you old serpent,’ says the angel when he folds the paper and takes it. ‘The Ivy?’

‘Yeah, okay. We can park it in the bookshop later?’ Crowley raises an eyebrow. He makes sure there’s a table for them, even though there usually isn’t trouble with tables at The Ivy. Especially not on a Wednesday.

Aziraphale gives him one of those pleased smiles that make his heart do somersaults and hooks his arm around Crowley’s. ‘I’ve just purchased two bottles of that ’03 Château d’Yquem you like,’ he says, and means_ of course, my dear, where else would we go?_

** **v** **

‘I told you, Crowley, I don’t _need_ a mobile phone. I don’t even know how they work and—and the only person I need to talk to is _you_! And you’re always either here or in your flat!’

Aziraphale drops the still-too-old-for-Crowley’s-liking BlackBerry mobile into his hand as if it were a mouse he wanted to get rid of, petulant and scowling and yeah, Crowley absolutely sees it coming, but he is adamant on bringing Aziraphale to the 21st century no matter _what_.

He doesn’t frown and shoves the mobile into his baffled angel’s chest. ‘Take it. You never know.’

Aziraphale catches it by instinct, covering Crowley’s hand with his own. He says, ‘No.’

Crowley pouts, because he _knows_ it has an effect. He extracts his hand from Aziraphale’s and plays with the tips of his tie? necklace? He has no idea what it is, himself, just that it adds a nice touch to his outfit[10]. He jerks his head in the direction of the sofa. ‘I’ll teach you how to use it. Come on.’

Aziraphale, being Aziraphale[11], repeats a, ‘No! What’s wrong with my telephone that irks you so, anyway?’

‘Nothing, angel, but,’ he lets out a low groan. ‘It’s the principle of the thing. Why do _you_ have to be so _stubborn_?’ He’s sure his teeth are bared without him meaning to. His face tends to do things he doesn’t want it to sometimes.

‘I’m not being _stubborn_, I’m merely being _reasonable_, while _you_—’

‘I’m _what_?’ Crowley snaps. He shouldn’t, not with his angel, but he can’t help it when Aziraphale definitely _isn’t_ reasonable. He’s still a godforsaken _demon_, which Aziraphale, clearly, sometimes tends to forget[12].

Also, Crowley tends to be Overly Dramatic sometimes. Maybe you’ve noticed.

Aziraphale frets and mutters, ‘Nothing.’ He’s still holding onto the mobile phone he so hates to be gifted with, which he realises about now and thrusts it at Crowley again.

‘For somebody’s sake, angel, I—I—’ _No, no, no, abort, bad moment, not now, not yet, not ever, he can’t—_ ‘You’re _impossible._’

With that, and a Dramatic Arm Gesture, Crowley saunters out of the bookshop, but he doesn’t forget to drop the mobile onto the stack of books nearest to the door as he does, because a gift is a bloody _gift_ and he _will _bring Aziraphale to make up his mind about the device.

‘Crowley, I’m sorry,’ Aziraphale calls after him. ‘Come back? Please?’

‘Toodle-oo,’ Crowley says, and when did he put this one into his vocabulary? He hisses in agitation because that’s something Aziraphale says and he’s being inappropriate and an idiot and. He intends to come back tomorrow but turns on his heel nonetheless, a long sigh escaping his lips.

Aziraphale smiles as soon as he turns, smug and victorious and just a bit ashamed, and Crowley thinks about what he almost said again. He re-enters the shop and says, ‘I better not regret this.’

** **vi** **

It’s 2019 now—five days after its beginning and all the fireworks and champagne and drunkenness and miracled-away hangovers, to be precise. Four months after the Apocawhoops. Time, as ever, moves forward.

On the last day of the year, Crowley took Aziraphale out, despite his protests that it was darn cold outside and staying inside would be nicer, and they watched London Eye light up as the clocks all over Britain stroke midnight. Their drinks were to-go.

And there was an unfortunate incident that involved a silly human tradition about kissing right there right then. Which is to say, they didn’t.

Or not really.

Crowley is still Thinking About It.

Thinking About It, in this case, means being unnecessarily[13] cruel to his plants, which make sure that there isn’t a single blemish on a single leaf to be angry about, which makes him cross because there’s nothing to be cross about—and look, it’s a bloody _circle._ He mists them with the energy of someone manually washing a dinosaur and Muses.

He shouldn’t have planted—hah!—that kiss on Aziraphale’s cheek. He went too far.

He shouldn’t have planted that kiss on Aziraphale’s cheek. He should’ve done it properly, like the humans, on the _mouth_. What was he afraid of, again? What did he have to lose? 

They’re an angel and a demon who are the universe’s least likely couple of best friends. They don’t have Sides anymore. They go out on their lunch dates and touch a little bit more, and everything is Nice. Everything is Love.

Yet, it’s _everything_, he thinks; Aziraphale has never shown any inclination towards such activities, himself. It’s always Crowley who pushes and goes too fast and _dares_. It’s always Crowley who takes the step further.

But what if this was too far?

Or what if he expected him to go further and didn’t say anything in the same way Crowley never says anything[14]?

So you see, it’s difficult. He has every reason to be harsh on the plants. Especially on the poinsettia Aziraphale gave him for Christmas. Angels and demons don’tevencelebrate Christmas, for Elvis’ sake!

There’s no reason for them to celebrate New Year’s Day either if they’re being honest. They’re immortal, and if they have to count all the New Years they’ve witnessed, they won’t arrive at a final number, because everyone who lives for as long as them loses count after the first three billion years[15]. Naturally.

Living on Earth, however, makes a celestial being such as Crowley or Aziraphale pick up a few habits by osmosis, and one of those is never passing an opportunity to drink together. Which is all New Year’s is, really.

But then Crowley has to go and do another stupid human thing.

It shouldn’t bother him so, he knows, but there’s a distinct difference between Knowing and Doing. The two of them are experts at that. It bothers him because he hasn’t heard from Aziraphale since 3 a.m. that day[16].

Were it any other day, he couldn’t be arsed to give it a passing thought. Aziraphale has an annoying habit of immersing himself in books for days, if not weeks, on end[17]. Throughout history, there were times they didn’t speak for two centuries and didn’t think it anything odd.

It’s just that it’s right after _that_, and Crowley is being Overly Dramatic again.

He puts the mister down and rubs at his tired eyes. He has no idea what time it is[18], but what he knows is that he hasn’t slept since that night and he’s long overdue for a nap. Which he doesn’t seem to be able to take.

Circles, circles all over.

He saunters into the kitchen, grabs a mug at random, and miracles himself a coffee. It’s counterproductive, what with the weariness, but he hardly cares. He goes to the unlived-in living room and turns the telly on. Nothing good is on, so he switches to Netflix[19] and continues in his gazillionth rewatch of _The Good Place_.

He actually stops thinking about the angel when he gets to his third episode, and falls asleep halfway through his fifth. He knows the jokes by heart, so it’s not exactly a difficult task.

It does prove to be a bad idea.

The doorbell rings mid-nap and Crowley jerks up so fast he spills the remainders of his long-cold third mug of coffee all over himself, blessing. He miracles it away just as quickly, sure enough, but it still vexes him somewhat.

He would never admit so, but it’s less about the coffee and more about the only possible person, or person-shaped being, to be ringing the bell despite long having received a key, not to mention the ability to _miracle the lock open._

‘My dear, are you there?’ calls Aziraphale’s muffled voice when Crowley doesn’t open the door fast enough. In response, Crowley waves his hand and wills it wide open. He can’t actually see the angel as he enters the flat, but he can just about imagine him making a face at the statue he has most definitely noticed by now. He grins at the image.

Then he remembers his woes and goes to meet Aziraphale halfway, hair in disarray and thoughts worrisome. He hooks his thumbs into the belt loops of his jeans and tries to look nonchalant. It sort of works only halfway, too.

What he wants to say is, _of course I’m here, Aziraphale, where else would I be when I’m not with you? You didn’t call, you didn’t—_

What he actually says is, ‘Hey, angel. What brings you to my humble dwelling?’

Aziraphale takes off his coat, warmer and heavier than his usual attire[20], and fixes his cuffs. Then he fidgets some more, as if something that should be let out but rather likes staying home is on his mind, and Crowley _knows_ this expression. The last time he saw it was the week before the end of the world. ‘Actually, that’s just the problem here—well, no, not problem, but—you might be onto something there,’ he says. ‘I’ve been thinking.’

Yeah. Obviously.

‘Hmm?’ Crowley lifts a careful, questioning eyebrow. He doesn’t want to come out on the wrong end of this and therefore let his Uncool Worries be known.

Aziraphale gestures towards the living room. ‘Why don’t we sit down? That is, I don’t mean to impose…’

‘Nonsense,’ Crowley shakes his head. He sets off in the direction of the living room but then swerves into the kitchen, another display of involuntary, uncontrollable Britishness. He puts the kettle on. Aziraphale stands in the doorway. ‘You want tea? Something stronger?’

‘Tea would do nicely, thank you,’ answers Aziraphale with a wholehearted smile that makes Crowley want to have something stronger himself. Then he disappears in favour of the sofa. Crowley makes two cups of tea and adds a little more sugar than usual to his.

Either way, it gives him a kick.

Their fingers brush when he passes the other cup to the angel. It lasts for two seconds, and it’s Nice. Crowley remembers New Year’s Day again and suppresses a shiver. He addresses the elephant in the room. ‘What’s been on your mind, then?’

Aziraphale doesn’t speak until he sits down next to him. He’s clearly putting things off. Crowley’s mind comes to an idiotic conclusion that he’s fucked up, or didn’t, or—he _worries_.

‘You see, Crowley, I’ve been thinking about a great deal of things lately, mostly us, you and… you and me, and our sides, and how we spend an awful lot of time together—that is, not _awful_, Heavens no—’

He sips at his tea and avoids eye contact in the way he does, intermittent, and Crowley’s stomach grows impatient and fluctuates between fear and love and he doesn’t know what to do with it, so he says, ‘Get to the point, angel.’

‘Right. Yes.’ A blush creeps onto the angel’s cheeks. It’s so wonderfully _human_. ‘I hope you won’t think me too straightforward, but I thought that perhaps we could, ah,’ his gaze falls onto his hands and then jumps back at Crowley, ‘move in together, now that our bosses are out of our feathers. It would everything much easier, and we do deserve the bit of quiet after all we’ve been through, don’t you think, my dear? And as I said, we already spend nearly every night either here or at the bookshop, and well—are you _listening_?

No. He’s not. He stopped somewhere after the part about moving in together.

Forgetting the perfectly good tea at hand, he gulps on air. Only now, he realises he’s not wearing his sunglasses and feels oddly vulnerable. ‘Come again?’

Aziraphale fingers the delicate handle of his teacup[21], once again avoiding Crowley’s eyes. ‘Oh, I shouldn’t have brought this up, I, I—’

‘No, that’s not,’ Crowley ventures, unsure where he even wants to go with this. He grasps Aziraphale’s forearm, the nearest part of him that’s safe enough for the tea to remain in the cup. There’s been enough of rogue liquids for today. ‘_Nggk_, I mean, are you _sure_? What about the bookshop, what about, what—’

‘Crowley,’ says Aziraphale, quickly becoming the calm, composed one, and isn’t that just awesome? ‘My dear boy, my _darling_, of course I’m sure. I’ve been running the bookshop for over 200 years, and I didn’t want to admit it to myself for a while, but the humans are starting to _notice_. I think it’s time to pack up shop and go somewhere—actually, I’ve been thinking down south, somewhere by the sea, what do you think? Because Crowley, I—there’s no one I’d rather spend the rest of my days with than you.’

The rest of his days. Right. A whole eternity. With Crowley.

There’s nothing he’d want to hear more than that. Hasn’t been for six thousand years—that’s how long Crowley has been hoping to hear it, to feel it, and he tells him as much and certainly doesn’t cry because that’s not what snakes or demons _do_.

It’s not that he’s embarrassed about his emotions, but right now, he’s embarrassed about his emotions. He’s supposed to be Cool and Chill with this whole thing, as opposed to Fretful and Indecisive Aziraphale, but no, he’s just going through the same episode as earlier and he’s not even thinking about what happened four days ago anymore.

Aziraphale certainly doesn’t. Would you look at _that_.

‘Are you quite all right?’ asks the angel in question.

‘Perfectly fine. Yeah. Couldn’t be better,’ Crowley lies and cracks a smile that’s a little too maniacal. ‘Did you say down south?’

Aziraphale miracles the teacup onto the coffee table so he doesn’t have to move and squeezes the hand still holding his forearm. ‘The South Downs, as it is. There’s a rather lovely cottage on sale not a long way from Brighton,’ he says. His eyes perk up with the kind of excitement he only finds when talking about old books or fine wine or scrumptious food—and a lightbulb over Crowley’s head tells him it’s the kind of excitement he finds around _Crowley._

‘That sounds kinda perfect,’ he says, and doesn’t just mean the cottage. He suspects Aziraphale can see it in his eyes, and that’s just fine. His heart still beats a little faster and his stomach feels like he’s going down a switchback or going up to space or both, but there’s love, paradoxical love everywhere.

‘That it does,’ Aziraphale smiles.

The atmosphere is eerily similar to the time they shared a toast at the Ritz after they got the better of Heaven and Hell both, Crowley reminisces.

He threads his fingers with Aziraphale’s, feeling much better about his odds with all the Feelings stuff now[22], and exhales, long and slow. ‘Angel, I’d follow you anywhere. You know I would.’

‘I know,’ says Aziraphale, honest. ‘I’d go to Hell all over again just so you wouldn’t have to. I understand now. Everything.’ Another squeeze. ‘I choose you.’

_I love you love you love you—_

He smiles and squeezes back. ‘I did in Eden.’

* * *

1 His invention, satin. He’s proud of the bedding especially, because it’s something that gives off an unmistakable air of luxury, and everybody with a bit too much self-esteem and just enough vanity to want to impress any and all potential visitors with their impeccable taste in home décor feels the particular need to own a pair or three, but really, it’s extremely uncomfortable to sleep in, and the duvet always slides off the bed in the middle of the night. And the name of the fabric is a bad Satan pun, besides.

Satin pyjamas are a different matter entirely. He swears by them—as long as the bedding is made of cotton.[✿]

2 Of the _bed_. Only of the bed, now.[✿]

3 He tried to sleep on it once or twice. Didn’t go well.[✿]

4 Well, maybe not quite so long for Aziraphale, but details, right?[✿]

5 Crowley’s words.[✿]

6 11 a.m.[✿]

7 Straight_er_, not _straight_. Crowley couldn’t attempt that even if you ran him over with a bus. Straightness is a thing he decided wasn’t for him before he ever became a demon, about six billion years ago, in whichever sense you take to understand it.[✿]

8 Certainly not them, anyway.[✿]

9 Humans, as a whole, remain generally untroubled by any cataclysmic events that happen around them but not directly __to __them, especially those who happen to be English. They brush the Apocawhoops off as mass hallucinations and forget the blazing M25 in a week, because there’s always _something_ on the news and honestly, what those Americans are doing… That’s what’s so fascinating about them, God thinks. There’s a tornado in London and Satan himself shows up in the small village of Tadfield, but they keep calm and carry on.[✿]

10 Crowley _may_ call himself a fashion expert and endlessly criticise Aziraphale for his outdated clothing items, but most of his outfits consist of stuff he—she at the time—bought around 2005 and had on rotate since. The Valentino sunglasses and a jacket or two are the only exceptions. Don’t tell him. He knows, and he’ll just mock you about it.[✿]

11 Fussy to his corporation’s bone.[✿]

12 So does Crowley. Mostly around Aziraphale.[✿]

13 He wouldn’t say so. It was all perfectly adequate, thank you very much.[✿]

14 With the notion everything is crystal clear and doesn’t need saying out loud because Feely Things are embarrassing to be talked about out loud for a demon, even a bad one—good one—you _get it_.__[✿]

15 This is also a reason why God decided to start over and make a new year zero. After 13 billion years, things got a little confusing and numbers too long, and to be quite honest, She wasn’t sure whether the year was 13,800,016,148 or 13,800,016,149 or something else entirely, so She thought the birth of Her favourite human—half-human, anyway—was as good a time as any and marked it the new beginning. The paperwork was terrible, and everyone was pissed about it for a while, especially the angels who had to broach the news to the Universe’s oblivious inhabitants, but they got used to it and came to appreciate it in the end. 2019 was a much nicer number, now, wasn’t it? Even if it was on an inevitable path towards another calendar reset in a few aeons.[✿]

16 And he didn’t actually try and get in touch with him himself. He would blame it on Aziraphale’s distrust of the mobile, which is the only number Crowley ever calls him on these days, but really it’s because he’s not so keen on getting an actual answer.[✿]

17 _The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, Witch_ being a prime example.[✿]

18 4:27 p.m. But to his credit, it was almost dark already.[✿]

19 When he got it, he miraculously wrote his subscription down to the PM’s office, because no one deserved to be sucked out of money more than the greedy people in the government. They also pay for his water bill and whatever he decides to cover with his credit card.[✿]

20 It so happens that it snows today. In London. And it _sticks_, not just turns into a wet, unpleasant slush, which, yes, it’s January, but this is _London_. Snow doesn’t tend to hold. But then again, angels and demons don’t tend to fret and worry and inadvertently cause weather phenomenons.[✿]

21 Crowley hasn’t even owned teacups until recently, when Aziraphale started spending more time around. He always drank tea from his large mugs with stupid jokes and chipped edges before—and still does, when it’s just him. Just like Aziraphale drinks his cocoa from the stupid winged mug which Crowley secretly loves.[✿]

22 Though no less jittery and uncertain and all the Undemonish Feels you can put onto him.[✿]

**Author's Note:**

> **comments and kudos give me life <3 **


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